Tacere
by Daze485
Summary: Vanyel is plagued by dreams. He dreams of the future, in all its facets and forms, and how to navigate the possibilities it presents to those who see. His Foresight is powerful, but can it - and he - be enough to prevent the future's imminent destruction? Tylendel/Vanyel, rated M for caution.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The candles still burned, Vanyel being far too comfortable – perhaps _exhausted_ was the better word – to do anything about them. Tylendel was asleep beside him, limbs splayed about him and tangled up in a tousled mess of sheets. Vanyel smiled at him and pulled the thicker blanket about him against the chill he felt in the room, huddling under it and shivering inadvertently when his foot touched the warmer skin of his leg. It felt like a damned block of ice. Tylendel shifted and made a noise in his sleep, unconsciously scraping the sheets farther down his body, sweat glistening on his skin in the fitful candlelight. It was odd, the difference in their respective sensitivities to temperature: Tylendel seemed to radiate some inner heat from some unknown sun shining even in the depths of his psyche, whereas Vanyel found himself shivering under the heat of the noonday sun in summer. As if, as opposed to the sun beaming resplendent within Tylendel, Vanyel's body contained a block of ice – ice that crept outward, expanding…

Tylendel shifted again and Vanyel felt the weight of an arm settle on his side. He smiled sleepily to himself. Well, at least his innate cool kept him from sweating, Vanyel mused, muzzily grasping at humour, if he sweated as much as Tylendel on a daily basis, he'd have ruined his brocade vests long ago. Sweat seemed to suit Tylendel, though. Something to do with golden skin… Vanyel felt his eyes close, distantly, the weight of Tylendel's arm an anchor dragging him down into sleep.

The hall was dark, the windows closed against the cool air of the night, and there was a stillness that reverberated off the shadowed walls, one born of shock. There was smoke rising from the darkened candles in their sconces up and down the hall – as if they had all been extinguished, just now, all at the same time. But there were hundreds of them, it was impossible that they could have all been snuffed out at once… A gust of wind – but the windows were all closed…

Vanyel blinked once. Twice. He felt a tingling sensation in his hands, one that he could not name but found distressingly familiar; and the pounding in his head, not a pounding similar to any hangover he had ever experienced – it felt like a part of his brain had declared independence, detached itself from the whole, and had decided to throw a particularly raucous celebration to commemorate the event. Vision blurring once again, Vanyel forced another blink.

Someone shifted in the darkness in front of him. There were people here in the dark, with him, people who had been shocked into silence and stillness. Vanyel squinted: there were faces he recognised. His Aunt Savil was there, with some of the Heralds that came to see her so often; then there was the Queen, Elspeth, looking more shaken than he had ever seen her, flanked by a few other nobles he couldn't quite name but was aware of knowing in some way…The person next Savil shifted again, taking a step towards him this time. He raked his eyes blearily around him, realising belatedly that there must be twenty or so people gathered around him, arranged in a circle that looked as if it had been recently disturbed. As if everyone had taken a few steps back from… from him, standing in the centre.

"Van?" The voice was – Tylendel. Vanyel tried to focus his eyes as he stared in the direction of the voice, but there was something preventing him, something flashing across his vision in spurts of colour and twinges of visible sound. The pressure – the pounding – in his head was growing, his vision seeming to drown in the flashes of colour and sound just as his thoughts drowned in that pain.

"Boy? Can you hear me? What is this, a trance?" There was a hand on him, probably his arm or his shoulder, but Vanyel couldn't quite tell. The voice was no longer Tylendel's – it was now Savil's voice, hoarser than usual, sending a spate of angry purple across his line of vision. But it jerked something in his sputtering mind into place and he knew that there was something he had to tell them, something the Circle _needed_ to hear – and needed to hear _now_.

"Listen to me." His voice echoed in his own ears, and he felt everything go still and silent in the room – more so, even, than it had been before – and all attention was fixed on him. The voice that issued from his own lips sounded portentous, ominous in a way Vanyel almost found amusing. He sounded like some jester at court, spinning some yarn about heroes of old and the triumph of good over evil, entertaining the children by adopting the booming tones of some crazed mage or other. Vanyel would have laughed, even, if there hadn't been something in his own tone that sobered him. An inflection conveying absolute conviction, denying any comparison with jesters or children's tales – his voice was that of portent and it was genuine. Genuine enough to be frightening. Somehow he knew that it was upon his tone that the attention of the room was hooked. He continued without quite realising it, without quite knowing what he was saying or why he was saying it:

"Trust not the hawk, nor the eagle, no matter how loftily they perch and peck at your door. The crow, bowing and scraping at your doorstep and cheating and stealing once your back is turned, is the truest servant you will find once the coming dark falls. Not because the crow feels loyalty, nor any real obligation though he take your offered charity without qualm, but because the crow's plumage is black. The crow will fly through the dark without soliciting a glimmer of suspicion and serve those who offer him most; the hawk and the eagle will fall, shot out of the night sky, their nobility as useless as their fealty when their life is extinguished. Trust not the crow with your heart and soul, but trust him with your throne and safety. He is the warrior who may guide us through to victory, but victory is not in his interests. Trust the crow in the pitch of night; beware the crow in the dawning of the day." Vanyel felt his dry throat close after the final words, his body seeming to know better than his conscious mind what was needful at this gathering of gatherings. He could hear an audible gasp from somewhere in the room, but it was too far away to affect him.

He was lost under a tsunami of colours and rushing sounds and flickering sensations. His mind – or some other force – swept conscious thought aside as the room was lost to him, feeling only the tile under his cheek and hearing only the clatter of feet hastening towards him before he was gone.

Swirling all about him, in some nebulous plane of possibility, were paths. Streams and fords and rivers and channels flowed all around him in perpetual motion and perpetual uncertainty; some were overlapping, some criss-crossed each other, others were juxtaposed and perpendicular, and still others ran parallel each other with a thrumming energy linking them. Vanyel felt himself caught up in the storm of motion and change, unable to find himself in the tumult, unable to keep himself from being tossed about and battered by the forces that reigned in this terrible place. He was thrust into the channels by whatever forces carried him, first into one then into another, following them in the courses and seeing to their cores. _Watching it all go up in flames…_

That was when he understood. He understood the words that he had spoken, why he had though them so important; he understood this place and its endless mutation; he understood it all because –

"Van?"

Vanyel started from his sleep, ripped from his dream with as much force as he had felt in that realm of channels, and paths, and movement. He searched the room quickly, recognising nothing for a moment, his chest heaving and his skin brittle with cold. A hand set on his shoulder caused him to flinch, turning in the direction of the attack with as much alertness as he could muster. He met only Tylendel's wide eyes.

"Hey, Van, calm down! You were having a dream, though I don't imagine it was a terribly good one. Just," Tylendel shifted closer and slipped his arms under the blanket Vanyel trembled under, "breathe for a minute."

Vanyel felt Tylendel's heat, burning all the hotter for his concern, and allowed himself to relax. All was well, it was merely a dream. Merely a dream – or so he wished to tell himself as Tylendel held him and the cold and the trembling abated. But the voice he had used to address the Circle still rang in his ears, the primal vibration of that realm of channels was encased in his bones. Sure, it was a dream… It was a dream like the ice dream – not really a dream at all.

"Are you okay?" The question was whispered into his hair, the concern still there but rendered fuzzy and soft around the edges by the sleep that had crept back into Tylendel's voice. A hand reached up to stroke his hair and Vanyel realised that he had yet to stop trembling. He was suddenly embarrassed – it was foolish to keep Tylendel from his rest like this, terrified out of his wits by a… 'dream'. He was acting like a child.

"I'm fine. Go back to sleep." Vanyel let the protests die on their own as Tylendel lay back and was soon fast asleep. He curled up next to Tylendel's sleeping form, trying to drink in as much of his heat as he could – his skin still felt as hard and cold and fragile as ice.

He tried to close his eyes and tried to find sleep again, knowing that, by the time-honoured adage his mother had recited constantly, that one could not experience two night terrors in one night. Unless there were special circumstances. And Vanyel knew that whatever that had been, it had not been a dream. His eyes opened slowly, fixed on the ceiling – dark now, as the candle had evidently guttered while he had been asleep – and they did not close again.

It wasn't a dream. And, as Vanyel continued to shake, pressed up against Tylendel as he slept beside him, he wasn't quite sure it really terrified him.


	2. Chapter 2

A whitewashed light prodded Tylendel into wakefulness. While the light in itself didn't bother him much at all, the deep-set throbbing in his head that the light likewise prodded into wakefulness cast something of a pall over the morning's virginal innocence. With a muffled curse, he pushed himself into a vaguely upright position, head buried in his hands and thoughts buried under a thrumming haze of familiar pain. Such was the price of sins committed under cover of darkness: if they were worth it, they made sure to make the memory of their presence known come morning.

Tylendel felt himself smiling at that – or possibly grimacing – and turned his head to peer at the body sleeping next to him. He hadn't felt Vanyel stir at his outburst, which meant he must still be blissfully asleep, oblivious of the hangover cruelly waiting to pounce at the slightest sign of life; that, or –

There was no one beside him.

A flash of confusion crowded the pain in his mind, and Tylendel turned to the window despite the glaring light, trying to determine the time. It was early yet. Earlier than Tylendel was accustomed to rising, his first class being set slightly later to accommodate his… disreputable – as Savil put it – nightly habits. Tylendel smirked slightly at the thought: he and Savil had never quite resolved that argument, but youth did have its prerogatives. And its needs.

But Vanyel's classes were set even later, as the highborn's habits were often more extreme than his own, Vanyel consistently dragging himself out of the haven of linens and drawn curtains much later than Tylendel. It was a part of Tylendel's daily routine – one that he never really spoke of to anyone, out of a strange mixture of jealousy and embarrassment – to start the day just laying next to Vanyel, watching his face as he slept and stroking his hair. In fact, Tylendel was hard pressed to come up with an instance in which Vanyel had actually managed to wake before him, nightmares in the middle of the night aside…

Nightmare. Tylendel grasped at a rather confused recollection of Vanyel crying out in his sleep, jolting into wakefulness with fear in his eyes, trembling like he had been left out in a blizzard; he could also remember trying to comfort Vanyel, trying to calm him down and meaning to have him talk to him about whatever it was he had dreamt… but then Vanyel's face had closed, all emotion swept away, and he had told Tylendel that everything was fine, letting him slip back into the clutches of Morpheus.

Damn it. Tylendel ripped at the sheets twined around his legs and attempted to manoeuvre himself into a proper sitting position, eventually managing to push himself off the edge of the bed in his haste, landing rather painfully on his hands and knees. After a spate of cursing rendered largely ineffective by his breathlessness, Tylendel pulled on whatever clothes were on the floor nearest him – he knew they weren't Van's just by the fact that they were on the floor and not carefully arranged in the wardrobe. Even in the deepest drink-induced oblivion, Vanyel still seemed to have an protective instinct toward his clothing.

When the clothes were decently arranged to cover all the important things, Tylendel took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, waiting for the shadows hanging about the walls to stop spinning. When he was moderately sure that he could take two steady steps in a straight line, Tylendel made his way to the door, stumbling only once. Well, twice.

Finally reaching the door, Tylendel grabbed the handle, prepared to throw it open and burst into the common room in a rush of instability and poorly buttoned fabric. But, before he could carry out this plan of action, a pair of voices brought him up short and he paused to listen. He was a Herald trainee, but that didn't mean he couldn't see the advantages of eavesdropping. And it certainly didn't mean he considered himself above taking advantage of an opportunity when one offered itself up to him.

And an opportunity this evidently was, the unassuming yet firm murmur of Donni's voice mingling with a voice Tylendel knew he could place anywhere, one he felt almost inscribed in his soul.

"…. how you managed to get such a headache, Vanyel? I'm doubting it's a result of too much sleep." Donni's voice was teasing, light and friendly.

"Ah, well. I could regale you with tales, but I fear sullying your enviable innocence." Van's voice was just as light as Donni's, but Tylendel couldn't help remarking that it was… odd. It wasn't just hoarse, or brittle – it was definitely both of those things, given the things he and Vanyel had been doing last night – but it had a certain faintness to it that couldn't be explained away by a late night or too much drink or…

"Vanyel Ashkevron, I think you underestimate my level of experience in debauchery." Tylendel almost gave himself away at that: only Van could cajole Donni into such a conversation. Though, oddly enough, it seemed like Donni was doing the majority of the cajoling this morning. Vanyel was quieter than usual, not offering anything more than short responses to Donni's openings, seeming to be actively avoiding a conversation. And his voice, it sounded –

Distracted.

Tylendel shook himself and opened the door, aiming at first for a casual air of having just woken and ending up focusing on making it to the couch without causing himself serious bodily injury. When he was safely sprawled on the gently spinning couch, Tylendel ventured a slurred greeting.

"Hi, Donni. Hey, Van." He winced at the turgid, uncooperative feeling of his tongue, but felt slightly cheered at the wry glance Van and Donni exchanged at his expense. At least Van still felt well enough to make light of his pain. As usual.

Donni offered a good morning that was just a little too thickly spiced with suppressed laughter for Tylendel's liking, and Vanyel just smirked at him knowingly. Tylendel heard himself grumbling sloppily before he realized he was doing it; and, by the growing grins on the others' faces, he wasn't maintaining anything even bordering on dignity in doing so. After a second's hazy consideration, Tylendel decided to cut his losses.

"Oh, stop laughing at me!" His plaintive order only seemed to add fuel to the fire. "Come over here, ashke, and make me feel better." Tylendel threw in a pout to go with that last, hoping it would encourage Van to take pity on him. Vanyel raised an eyebrow, but didn't make any move to get up from the stool he was currently perched on.

It was Donni who got up, poured a battered cup full of some kind of liquid and shoved it into Tylendel's hand. She turned an unreadable glance on him, standing over him by the couch, before saying playfully, "Oh, well, you aren't the only one who's feeling the night's toll on the morning. Poor Vanyel is currently locked in mortal combat with a terrible migraine." Donni returned to the breakfast table at that, smiling at Vanyel's scowl, but not before Tylendel caught a flicker of something in her eyes. Something that looked an awful lot like concern.

Struggling into a slanted position, depending to an embarrassing degree on the arm of the couch to keep him there, Tylendel carefully took in Vanyel's appearance. At first glance, he didn't seem any different than usual: slightly hunched with a dazed look in those silver eyes – better than Tylendel had managed in these early morning hours of penance – his clothes perfectly matched, accessories arrayed on his person with impeccable taste, his hair slightly tousled but still the sleek ebony envy of the court. Altogether, the peacock – the hungover peacock.

But in his hands was a cup, steam curling up from its contents, and Vanyel was sipping at it with a single-minded avidity, as if desperate to inhale as much of it as possible. Tylendel took a deep breath – the air had a medicinal tinge, as if one of them had just returned from the healer. Or taking medicine. Tylendel stared at the cup, then shifted his eyes to Donni. She nodded slightly.

Vanyel had never needed to take medicine to deal with a hangover before, and the pair of them had brought down much worse on their heads before. In fact, Tylendel wasn't sure he had ever seen Vanyel take medicine before – particularly not for a headache. Vanyel didn't get headaches. He –

"Hey, Van, what are you drinking?" Tylendel took a sip out of his own cup and made a show of grimacing. "Could I have a bit? Mine's terrible."

Vanyel looked over at him, then down at his cup. Not hesitating for a moment, he tipped his head back and swallowed the last of it, setting the cup on the table. "Sorry, love, you'll just have to make do." Vanyel gave him a wicked smile that didn't seem quite genuine and rose from the table.

"Thanks, Donni, I'll see you later. Tell Mardic that I wished you both luck on your field exam – I think you'll both need it." Donni waved him off with a twinkle in her eye, and Vanyel turned to Tylendel, walking over to the couch. He leaned down and, staring into Tylendel's eyes, kissed him, his hair brushing Tylendel's cheek. "I have to go take care of something – I'll be back later. Don't think about me too much." With a final wink, Vanyel swept out of the room before Tylendel could marshal his thoughts into any kind of coherent order.

The odour of pain medication lingered in the air.

"Donni, what was that? Is there something I should know?" Tylendel pinned her with his gaze, the gesture somewhat tarnished by the fact that he suddenly couldn't quite focus his eyes. He took another sip of his water.

Instead of answering, Donni just gazed at the door, a look of consideration on her face. It was when Tylendel had resigned himself to waiting, taking a second sip of water to appease his parched mouth, that Mardic decided to lumber in, fully-clothed and looking as if he had been awake and alert since dawn. He paused with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth, finally scenting the apprehension in the air. And, characteristically, he dispensed with subtleties and bluntly dived straight to the point, asking into the silence, "What's gone wrong?"

Tylendel spared him a fleeting glance before returning to Donni. Mardic's question seemed to rouse her from her contemplation, and she met Tylendel's eyes, voicing the very words he had been dreading:

"There's something wrong with Vanyel."


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the wait, but here is the next installment of Tacere. I'm thinking of getting a schedule in place and updating every Friday, but only time will tell whether I can actually respect that kind of self-imposed schedule. And, just a note, I take some liberties with philosophy in this chapter – as a disclaimer, I do not have an in-depth degree of knowledge of how Mercedes Lackey envisioned philosophy being taught in Valdemar, so I made my own stuff up. Anyway, enjoy!**

"Ashkevron – Ashkevron! Are you listening? Ashkevron – " Vanyel belatedly raised his head at the words, remarking that his philosophy professor looked alarmingly like a melting cabbage when he was riled. And he was now.

"Ah, good to see you are at least responsive to summons, young Ashkevron," Vanyel hated it when the man called him that – it made him think of Withen and all the unpleasantness he associated with his father – but all of his professors referred to him in that way, they had to. It was his name, after all. Vanyel waited patiently – well, quietly, at least – for Scribere to get over himself and come to the point, whether that point was to be a reprimand, a joke or a punishment.

"Did you happen to catch, by chance, the question I just posed to the class, Ashkevron? Or were you still embroiled in the infinitely more fascinating workings of your own mind?" Vanyel hadn't heard the question, and found he had absolutely no desire to hear it now. His head was still pounding, despite the medication he had begged Donni to slip in his tea that morning, and between the pain and the disturbingly tantalizing, albeit confusing, memory of what had transpired in his dreams last night, Vanyel had no focus to spare for the present. Particularly not for Scribere.

He drew himself up to deal with the immediate situation, not hugely invested in the eventual outcome; if he was thrown out, or even given extra hours with the arms master as punishment, at least he wouldn't have to pretend to listen to the rest of the class, a course of action that was rapidly becoming an impossibility. But damned if he was going to let Scribere win a confrontation with him – he had been trumping the dusty old codger all year, and he wasn't about to go down without a fight. He met Scribere's milky blue eyes and heard the class shift about eagerly behind him, anticipating conflict and settling in for the show. Knowing he had an audience only served to make Vanyel feel even more confident: he was used to having an audience and knew how to absorb their attention and convert it into energy, while Scribere did not; Scribere only knew how to absorb boredom and convert it into energy.

"Professor, you are right in thinking the workings of my mind are fascinating, but of course that isn't the subject of this class, is it? Perhaps in another few years you'll be teaching classes about me, but not quite yet, my good man. In any case, the subject we are discussing is the Future," the word was written on a large sheet of paper at the front of the class, so not the most impressive divination, but: "And the question you had just asked us all was: How does one approach thought about the future?" That was much more impressive, delivering the exact wording of a question both he, Scribere and most of the class knew he hadn't heard. Vanyel restrained himself from darting a grateful glance at Cal, the girl he was now forever indebted to for writing the question down on a scrap of paper and slipping it onto his desk. He would thank her after he dealt with Scribere.

Speaking of whom, the professor's eyes narrowed at hearing his question thrown back in his face, his first and most direct course of humiliating Vanyel thwarted. But, with Scribere, he always had another to fall back on. "Well, unless I decide to start offering a class on how to shirk responsibility and fritter away every opportunity, I doubt I will ever be giving a class on you, Ashkevron." Oh, that shot had scored, even Vanyel had to admit it. "But, as we're discussing the narrow confines of your mind, I would be overjoyed to hear your considered response to that question you delivered so well." Scribere's triumphal expression was almost too much to bear without spontaneous combustion. Vanyel decided to take the chance and gamble it all on his powers of improvisation: it was either total failure or total victory now.

Vanyel turned his head slightly, so their audience would have the full benefit of his mocking grin. "I'm sure you would be, master Scribere." A yawn slipped past Vanyel's defenses, and, instead of allowing it to mar his performance by creeping in unexpected or by trying to suppress it, Vanyel leaned back in his seat, threw an arm over its high back and yawned a yawn that practically screamed boredom at Scribere. Someone at the back of the class snickered and Scribere's eye darted to catch the hooligan in the act, but quickly returned to Vanyel. He was the big prize.

"Out late last night, Ashkevron? Shirking responsibility and frittering away opportunities at the court? At a tavern in town, more likely." Scribere sniffed haughtily and Vanyel grinned malevolently at him, spitting out a reply. "Yes, at the Dancing Crow – they've a wonderful triple ale. Didn't I see you there, sir? Sitting in the back booth, sipping like there was no tomorrow." Vanyel couldn't help himself, even if the retort was immature. He didn't think the other students were overly concerned with the maturity of his remarks, though, given the wave of hilarity that rolled over them at that. And Scribere's face turned a deep shade of red, hollows of his cheeks taking on an almost violet tinge, such that Vanyel wondered if Scribere had actually been in the tavern last night. If so, Vanyel had inadvertently landed a telling blow with a seemingly puerile taunt. Bonus.

Or perhaps not. His colour going down slightly, Scribere turned a dangerous glare on him, and, bowing a head condescendingly to Vanyel, he swept a hand toward the front of the class. "Well, if we're quite done with pleasantries, I invite you to join me at the front of the class, Ashkevron. You may regale us with your scholarship from here." Vanyel had waked the dragon and it had practically demanded that he meet it on its own turf. There was no backing down from so direct a challenge, but Vanyel had sense enough to see how precarious the ground was beneath him as he rose and faced Scribere. He would have to proceed with caution.

At the front of the class, the feeling of thirty or so avid stares fixed on him was amplified, to the point that Vanyel could have sworn they were pressing physically against his skin. He didn't falter; instead, he felt the weight of the eyes coalescing behind him, forming a pillar of support for him to lean on as he met Scribere's challenge: they all wanted to see him prevail, not Scribere. He had the greater advantage: they were meeting on Scribere's home turf, but Vanyel had the goodwill of the audience.

But he would need the goodwill of the gods if he was to come up with something coherent and sufficiently intelligent to slip out of Scribere's rapidly tightening clutches – he had never paid much attention in this course. He hoped against hope that philosophy, of all subjects, would be one he could take to naturally.

"Well, the question you've posed, professor, is a far-reaching and rather vague one. As today's class marks the beginning of our embarking on this new subject, the Future," Vanyel set to praying furiously as he realized he really didn't know if today was the first day they had focused on the Future as a topic, "the broad focus of the question was a deliberate choice and meant to stimulate us to considering as much about the subject as we can. However, given your diction in composing the question, I believe you were subtly prompting us to focus our consideration of the subject with regard to the other key words you've slipped in as slyly as ever: 'approach' and 'thought.'"

"I appreciate your explaining my own teaching strategies to me, Ashkevron, and revealing them to the few laggards in the room who overlooked the obvious intentions of my question, but I think we're all more interested in hearing something original. And I'm sure your response, if anything, will be original." Scribere's tone was as smug as it was deliberately insulting, but Vanyel could see the slight tilt of his eyebrows and the narrowing of his eyes, all of which told him quite clearly that Scribere hadn't expected Vanyel to understand his question on its surface, let alone pick out the strategies that had guided its composition. It was Vanyel's turn to let some smugness seep into his expression: it was true that he didn't put much effort, if any, into Scribere's class, but did the man really think him completely dull?

"My response, respecting the focus of the question on how to _think_ about the future, would necessarily need to take into consideration the positions of some of the great thinkers of the past and present. For example," Vanyel wracked his brain for a name, a reference, any scrap of information on a great philosopher that had been mentioned in class, "for example – Revenire, the man who contributed much to the philosophy of skepticism, would suggest – given his guiding thesis that nothing can be certain – that since even that which occurs in the present, right under our noses, cannot be taken as true beyond doubt, contemplation of the future is subject to even more doubt. He would be of the opinion that attempts to think on the future are useful only if it is understood by those who make them that any conclusions drawn about the future are inherently rife with uncertainty and cannot be relied upon to eventually occur. Therefore, Revenire would believe that the proper approach to thinking on the future would be to keep in mind at all times that it is impossible to know anything, especially the future, with complete certainty, so thought on the future must be used for estimations and speculations – but not to inform concrete answers or courses of action, as this could lead to dangerous mistakes." Vanyel took a breath and tried to recall all he'd said, checking it over for any major errors before Scribere could pounce on them.

There didn't seem to be anything glaringly incorrect, and the extra inch Scribere's eyebrows had climbed on his head told Vanyel that his answer had been unexpected. Scribere really did think him the dull, colourfully-clad peacock, then.

"Yes, I believe your view of Revenire's philosophy as applied to our question is substantially correct, if somewhat superficial. However, Revenire's skepticism is a rather easy choice as an example, Ashkevron: would you please select a different philosopher to give the class another possible opinion on the future? It would be wonderful to establish a comparison of juxtaposed ways of thinking before we continue." Scribere's smile was as transparent as a pane of glass: Vanyel could see the man's desire to watch him flounder as plain as day. He wasn't sure whether that desire was born of malice or merely determination after having been cheated of the chance to embarrass an uncooperative student time and time again. Probably a combination of the two.

Vanyel tried to rapidly remember every one of Scribere's classes he had attended, hoping to pick something useful out of the haze. He was not about to go down without a fight, and he kept his face a mask to keep Scribere from seeing him scramble – the glee he could imagine Scribere feeling at such a sight made Vanyel cringe. Someone – Cal, most likely – cleared their throat in what was probably an attempt to get his attention. Vanyel didn't acknowledge it: if he turned and accepted whatever hint she wanted to give him, Scribere would notice, the entire class would notice, and he would have lost. Not an option.

The polite sound jarred something in his mind, though, and Vanyel seized on it, desperately wishing it to be something useful. It was a memory, not of one of Scribere's classes, but of sitting in his room with Tylendel wrapped around him, holding a book in front of his nose and forcing him to study. The memory was certainly more appealing than any of the string of excruciatingly boring memories of Scribere's classes, but Vanyel couldn't see how it would help him. The memory ran its course in his mind: Tylendel making that polite little sound in his throat whenever Vanyel's mind wandered, causing his body to vibrate slightly behind Vanyel's own, rapidly bringing Vanyel back to himself; Tylendel turning the pages of the book, reading it aloud and explaining any concepts that weren't self-explanatory, forcing Vanyel to repeat these explanations in his own words as a means of ensuring he had been listening… The book had been about philosophy. He had been assigned extra reading by Scribere as a punishment for some transgression – Vanyel couldn't remember what he had done that time, it could have been anything – and there had been a whole damned textbook about philosophers in the stack of books he had dragged back to his room. Vanyel focused on the memory of Tylendel's voice reading the book to him, his finger tracing the pages to point out important terms and… names…

"Aequare!" Vanyel grinned at Scribere, who visibly deflated at the name. Hope still burned in his eyes, though: Vanyel had yet to properly define Aequare's philosophy and apply it intelligently to the subject at hand. It was Tylendel's voice that hummed calmly in Vanyel's ears, asking him to tell him what Aequare had thought of the world and to give him a serious answer this time, and Vanyel couldn't help smiling as he repeated his own words in reality, in tandem with his memory: "It was Aequare's view that all beings are equal, no matter their station or power, and that a person should live their life in treating all others in the manner they would want to be treated. If every being followed this guiding principle, respecting each person as an end in themselves rather than using them as a means to a selfish end, then he believed peace could truly prevail and we would achieve a utopian society." Vanyel took a moment to enjoy the scowl that Scribere was having difficulty stifling. "Aequare's guiding principle is rather more difficult to apply to the question about the future, and could be applied in a few different ways, but it is my opinion that the best way would be to establish Aequare's moral view of thought on the future. If we consider the future to be indeed knowable, beyond a shadow of a doubt, or if we just take into account the knowledge of those with Foresight, whose visions are subject to change and therefore some doubt, then Aequare would remind us that the uses of this knowledge must not be selfish or manipulative. He would be of the opinion that we should take the knowledge we gain from thinking on the future and act on it in a manner that protects the kingdom of ends and does not serve merely egotistical aims. Therefore, it would be Aequare's view that thought on the future be handled carefully and the aims of this thought and any actions inspired by it be evaluated with his principle in mind."

There was silence in the room as Vanyel held Scribere's gaze in brazen challenge. He could hear the excited shuffle of their audience – they wanted to applaud, but could sense that the show wasn't quite finished yet. Scribere proved them right by smothering the full-blown scowl that had bloomed on his face while Vanyel spoke and shaking his head.

"Perhaps not the best application of Aequare's philosophy to our question, but I suppose it is enough. What I am curious to hear, and I'm sure the rest of the class shares my sentiment, is your personal response to my question. So, Ashkevron, how _do_ we approach thought on the future?" The gleam in Scribere's eye was alive and well, but tinged with a feverish edge: this was his last, and admittedly best, chance to see Vanyel stumble.

Tylendel's voice had evaporated and Vanyel knew it was his own voice he would have to rouse now. He had no illusions about his ability to come up with an intellectually genius response – he just had to come up with something passable, tack an insubordinate comment on the end for the waiting audience, listen to Scribere insult his reasoning and punish him for the comment, then enjoy the sound of applause at his wit echoing in his memory as he ploughed through the mounds of supplementary work Scribere would have assigned to him. He wouldn't win exactly, but he wouldn't lose; he and Scribere would remain at odds, neither beaten into submission, but Scibere would not have the satisfaction of seeing him losing his footing and begging for mercy. Vanyel brought the question to the fore of his mind, highlighting the key words as it floated there for him to observe: 'approach', 'thought', 'future'…

The pounding in his head had returned. It had abated as he and Scribere crossed swords, as if the challenge Scribere posed him was enough to distract his rebellious brain and put it to work other than punishing him. But the pain was back, and it was back with a vengeance. The pain also recalled the dream to his mind, another thing that had mercifully disappeared for the duration of his little performance, but now prodded at him insistently. He hadn't much choice but to give in to it and he saw the dark hall once more, heard his own voice… but more importantly, he saw the tangle of lines, the paths glowing in stark relief against the void as they crossed and joined and twisted together.

Vanyel heard himself clear his throat, the sound more ragged than he could have hoped. Scribere seemed to interpret Vanyel's distress as failure to find an appropriate answer and his lips curved into a glowing smile. Vanyel wondered briefly why Scribere didn't smile like that more often – people might like him more if he did – before he flicked his eyes back up to meet Scribere's. The smile faltered.

"I believe your question to be somewhat skewed, master. Thought on the future shouldn't be approached," the lines flashed overwhelmingly large in his mind's eye for a moment, "thought on the future should approach you. I suppose a distinction has to be made between the kind of thought on the future that ends with speculations and estimations about what might potentially come next – the kind of thought on the future that we all perform on a daily basis in order to decide how to act in the present in order to achieve something in the future – and the kind of thought on the future that ends in certainty. The first is mundane, harmless; it is necessary for us to live our lives in the moment and strive to have the kind of life we want in the next. The second is less benign – it requires more care. With certainty of the future – or, as it would be more accurately termed, futures – we can drive things in one direction over another. We can pick and choose, or at least try to, and that must necessarily bring about a certain question of motivation. What kind of motives are justified in the manipulation of the future? How can one pick one path over another? Are pure reasons better than selfish ones, or do reasons matter at all? Futures twist about, fusing together and separating seemingly without reason, so how can we justify our motives to tell these twisting paths how to act, when we don't understand _their_ motives?" Vanyel cut himself off. He didn't understand half of the things coming out of his mouth and he had no idea where they were coming from – well, he did, to a certain extent. They were coming from the image of that place, the twisting lines in the void, from his dream. But all of this about choosing, about motivation… Vanyel felt a fear the like of which he had never felt before: he feared not knowing what he was saying, or what inspired it.

He was going mad. And his head felt like it was on the verge of splitting open.

The way Scribere was gaping at him, madness was definitely on the table, perhaps the only thing on the table, at this point. The rest of the class paused for a beat, waiting for Scribere to speak, but when he did nothing but stare, blatant shock on his face, the students made their judgement. Applause filled the room as the audience accepted Scribere's defeat and lauded Vanyel's victory, none of them understanding what Vanyel's answer had meant, but understanding the effect it had had on the professor. Scibere had been brought down, and he had been brought down by one of them.

Vanyel hardly heard them through the rushing of blood in his ears as his head pounded. His eyes locked onto Scribere's like a drowning man grasping at a bit of wood to keep him from slipping under the surface. The shock there was gradually draining away, and it was being replaced with fear. Fear of Vanyel. He had no idea how to interpret this, no idea how to react, but he kept his eyes on Scribere's for the slight flicker of something just beyond the fear: recognition, and… pity. Scribere knew what this was; his fear… he had understood more of what Vanyel had said than Vanyel did. He said nothing, just stared, just watched as Scribere blinked and roused himself.

"Alright, alright!" The professor's voice snapped grouchily at the class as he waved his arms for silence, but the tone rang hollow in Vanyel's ears. "Now, as the class has so tactfully pointed out, you've done passably well, Ashkevron. As your reward for demonstrating some meagre amount of philosophical knowledge, I am dismissing you from class early." The applause nearly started up again, but Scribere had a glare already prepared for them. "You may go, but remember the homework I assigned last week is due tomorrow."

Vanyel stared for a moment, not understanding a word, before he realized all eyes were on him, waiting for him to accept the spoils of his victory. He shook his head and executed a graceful, if mocking, bow, giving Scribere his best smirk. "I accept, professor. I'll have your work for you tomorrow – that is, if I don't see you at the tavern tonight. I might just give it to you then." Vanyel left the class in the throes of hilarity, only sparing Scribere a single parting glance.

A parting glance that shared the fear that he had seen in Scribere's eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Just a note, this story is something of an AU story, so I've taken liberties with timeline and I've gathered characters together that generally wouldn't have been around at the same time, like Tylendel and Stefen. I have reasons for this and they'll be revealed later in the story. Thanks!**

In the dark, curtains drawn, class dismissed, candles doused, Scribere sat behind his desk, staring. Nothing moved around him, his own body still as death – it was Scribere's mind that was whirling and leaping frenetically; connections lighting then shifting; excuses and rationalizations chiseling desperately at his certainty. That certainty floated unshaken in the eye of the storm, denials and qualifications pelting about in a twisting cyclone, but none managing to touch the conclusion that stood at the centre of calm. Scribere knew what he had seen; there was no doubt.

He just wished there was.

He didn't know what to do, who to tell… how to prepare _himself_ for what was to come, let alone the confused high-born slacker who was currently on the threshold of being thrust into an entirely different life, with or without his consent. In his experience, Scribere found this process usually barreled ahead without consent, and he had a notion that Ashkevron wouldn't take that well. Scribere felt a barely audible chuckle escape his paralysed lips at that and he shook his head: Ashkevron didn't take a fly landing on his desk well, this was going to push him over the edge. And Scribere would have to be the one to pull him back.

With that thought, Scribere shattered the oppressive stillness of the dark room by reaching down and tugging open a drawer built into his desk. Without hesitation, he pulled out a bottle, yanked out the cork and took a healthy swig. Now, at least, he had an excuse for drinking better than 'to escape memories of the past.' It had been a long time since he last drank to escape the present. He was uncertain whether it really constituted an improvement or not.

Steadily draining the bottle, Scribere tamed the raging of his thoughts and began to plan his next move. He would have to find the boy, bring him back here, explain his… but first he would have to make contact with those close to him, explain to them so they would be prepared. And so they could help him convince Ashkevron that what he told him was true – the eldest son of a nobleman who had rarely even heard Gifts mentioned in passing before he came to Haven might not immediately accept what Scribere had to tell him. And those close to him would need time to prepare themselves: if they cared about the boy in the least, this would be difficult for them too. Scribere had to tell – he had to tell everyone. This was an enormous development, it could have an effect on nigh on everything, from politics to war to daily life.

Elspeth – Elspeth, the Queen, had to be informed first and foremost. She would see the revelation diffused through the ranks to all who mattered, rumour taking care of everyone who didn't. This wasn't a situation that could be kept under wraps.

Scribere took a final draw from the bottle, shook it to be certain he'd gotten it all, and threw it to the ground. His eyes had never left the point he had been staring at for the last half candlemark – the spot where Ashkevron had stood and spoken words that were like a direct line feeding Scribere's past into the present. The spot where he had seen the fear in Ashkevron's eyes, and where he knew Ashkevron had seen the fear in his.

He rose heavily to his feet, no unsteadiness in his movements – he was no lightweight, and the drink had done more to steady him than unsteady him. Current events were already doing a grand job of unsteadying him, there was no room for alcohol to contribute its efforts.

As he left the room to gain audience with the upper echelons of the kingdom, Scribere thought regretfully of how it was always like this. The individual in question was always the absolute last to know.

Elspeth sat at the head of the table, refereeing the discussion between her advisors and nobles. Refereeing the argument, that is – she had been forced to stand and call the room to order twice already and they'd only been at it for a candlemark. At least she wasn't bored.

"Well, the agricultural output from the outer Holdings is lamentable! There are no two ways about it, and I don't think we need to mince words! I am not blaming anyone for the fact that we have a shortage, but we do and we need to deal with that before people start feeling it. We need – " Alius was cut off before he could actually get to his point, but everyone present knew what the point was anyway. Particularly the one who had interrupted it.

"I refuse to even consider such a rash course of action, Alius." Pecun put on his best pompous voice for this, Elspeth noted – he was really committed. "Given the state of upheaval in our relations with just about every land capable of sending us aid, do you really believe crawling to them on our hands and knees and charting out our weaknesses is the shrewdest plan? We cannot rely on any but ourselves in – "

"And this 'upheaval' you speak of, Pecun? Do you really think us all so uninformed that we would take your vague, blanket use of such a word as truth? Yes, there is unease, but in varying degrees, some lands leaning more towards us than others – there is war in the wind, therefore relations are strained, that's the way it works. But we have done nothing to turn our allies against us, nor have we done anything to provoke our enemies, it is all within the context of greater strife – therefore, this is the time to cement ties! Demonstrating some vulnerability and trust could be just the way to do that." Elspeth had always admired Nimis's ability to be both blunt and tactful at once in order to persuade others to his view, and she thought this a rather impressive example of the man's talent. He had managed to quiet the turmoil roiling through the room better than Elspeth herself, and all eyes were fixed on him, minds obviously considering his words. Elspeth took that as a good sign, even if it was inevitably temporary. The battle would recommence where it left off after this lull, she was sure – she just hoped Nimis had planted a lasting seed in their minds. He was her voice in this contest of advisors' advice, after all.

In the tense silence, Elspeth turned to her nephew, Randale. He was seated next to her, not expected to contribute but to observe – Elspeth was hoping to instill some political savvy in the boy and she thought a meeting of advisors was an appropriate starting point. She opened her mouth to quietly inquire what he thought of the proceedings, hoping for an answer that wouldn't make her cringe, only to discover Randale with his head balanced on one hand, drowsing. Elspeth released a sharp sigh and jostled him slightly, not wanting to draw the others' attention.

"Randale, Randi! Wake up, you fool!" Elspeth hissed the words through her teeth, keeping her voice low and unobtrusive. She didn't want to wake the advisors from their musings before they were ready, that might lead to disaster.

"Mm, what? What?" Randi stirred and blinked blearily at his aunt, catching the irritation in her eyes and hoping it wasn't all directed at him. Feeling a drop of drool slip down his chin, Randi had a sinking feeling most of it _was_ probably directed at him. "I'm sorry, Elspeth. I just," Randi sighed and looked down at his hands, "I just don't really understand what's going on. I'm sort of – out of my element listening to this kind of thing." He almost winced at the weakness of his own excuse, but it was true: he had neither a knack for, nor an interest in, politics. _Just one more reason I should never be allowed anywhere near the throne_ , he thought. And Randi was perfectly content with the idea of never getting within a mile of the throne: he had no desire whatever to be pinned with the crown. The very thought made his spine stiffen and his skin shudder. He was very far from being a leader.

Elspeth just looked at him and sighed, shoving his shoulder. Randi had come to recognise the gesture as a sign of affection. "I know, I know. Just try to pay attention, maybe you'll pick something up." There was a hopeful note in her voice that made Randi's heart cramp a little – she wanted him to show some aptitude for this and still held out hope that he would eventually, but Randi knew he would disappoint her. It was just a matter of when she realized just how deep his innate incompetence ran.

The Queen shifted her eyes to something beyond him and Randi felt a rush of relief at not being the subject of her scrutiny any longer. He twisted in his seat to see what had claimed her attention, and smiled when he followed her gaze to the Bardic student crouched in the corner, lanky limbs folded over his instrument. Stefen seemed to communicate with the Queen with his eyes alone, the green in them alight with comprehension, and he nodded subtly and picked up the pace of his plucking. He spared a second to grin at Randi encouragingly and wink before lowering his head and concentrating on the task at hand – calming the many passions of the advisors. Randi hoped he would be as effective as usual, otherwise they'd be sitting at this table until well into the night.

Elspeth and Randi both turned back to the table and each could almost feel the other's dismay at finding Pecun raising himself up, puffing out his chest and preparing to launch into a counterattack on Nimis's words. However, to the relief of everyone in the room – even Pecun himself – a guard clattered into the hall with a flash of the royal colours and the metallic tapping of his immense lance on the stone floor as he advanced. He executed a bow impressive in its grace given the man's uniform presenting him so many encumbrances, and looked to his Queen. Elspeth nodded for him to speak.

"I am sorry, Your Majesty, I realize your orders were that you were not to be disturbed until the conclusion of your session with the advisors, but Professor Scribere has been asking for an audience for quite a while now. He says his news is urgent and that he must speak with Your Majesty – when I told him you were occupied, he said he would just have to wait. He has been sitting in front of the door for at least half a candlemark…" The guard trailed off at his Queen's reaction to his words, the blood draining from her face and her eyes widening. Her older advisors, Nimis and Alius particularly, echoed her disturbance, exchanging glances. The guard shifted from foot to foot in his discomfort – he wasn't accustomed to seeing his Queen in such a state. Randi paled as well, but only in response to seeing Elspeth – the most fearless, brash person he had ever met – pale, and Stef stopped playing altogether, watching the proceedings nervously.

"You will show Professor Scribere in." Elspeth's voice sounded like it was wavering on the cusp of trembling, and Randi didn't think he had ever heard anything so terrifying in his life. The guard nodded stiffly and marched out, obviously confused and uneasy at having caused such a stir with what had seemed innocuous news. Randi blatantly stared at Elspeth, searching for some hint in her expression that would explain the tension that gripped the room like a hand around their communal throat; but Elspeth didn't seem to notice him, her eyes distant and worried – staring at the door – her lips pressed into a tight line. He was about to say something, put a hand on her shoulder, anything to break her out of this unnerving fixation on the doors before them, but a gentle, callused hand on his own shoulder brought him up short. Turning, he was met with wide green eyes and a shaking head.

"Don't. I have no idea what's going on right now, but I know what she's feeling," Stef glanced at Elspeth, something like wariness in his face, "and this is important. As in 'fate of the kingdom hanging in the balance' important – she won't appreciate distractions." Randi nodded up at his friend, trusting his ability to read the people around him. There was a reason Stef was here, playing for the Queen, instead of sitting through classes at Bardic all day long: he was the best.

The doors banged open and, as unceremoniously as it was possible to be, Scribere swept in, robes scruffy, hair wild. He stopped before the table and swept those present with his eyes, taking in their expressions. He lingered to lock gazes with Alius and Nimis before giving his full attention to his Queen. "Alright, judging by the stuffier than usual atmosphere in here and the looks on your faces, those that matter have already guessed my purpose for being before you." His philosophy teacher produced a bitter, humourless smile that Randi had never seen before. "But, in case you need further assurance, I'll tell you outright: I've found one. I have found a – a powerful one, perhaps more powerful than we have yet encountered." There was an odd mixture of triumph and defeat in his tone and Randi felt Stef shift behind him, picking up on something.

"Does he know?" Elspeth's voice was tight, controlled. Randi had no idea what she was feeling. Scribere smiled that twisting smile once again. "Not as such. I need to contact those closest to him before I track him down – "

"You let him out of your sight?" Elspeth shot to her feet and Randi scrambled to follow suite. "He could be anywhere, doing anything! What if someone were to discover…" Elspeth didn't finish her sentence, just stared intensely into Scribere's eyes, anxiety plain on her face now. Scribere approached and put a soothing hand on her shoulder, an action that shocked Randi more than anything else that had happened.

"Look, he was… he needed space. I let him leave class early, let him go do something with himself. Nothing is going to happen to him. But we need to get him now, and we'll need the help of people he trusts." Scribere's tone was calm, but the tension and the anxiety lurked in the undercurrents of his voice, inescapable.

'He's a student? A child?" Elspeth's voice was a whisper, a whisper unrecognisable as her own by its regret and pity.

"This is when it usually manifests, Elspeth. You know that." Despite his words, Scribere sounded resigned and sad, as if the pair of them were discussing a child being taken to the gallows for a petty crime. Randi watched as Elspeth visibly gathered her forces and nodded.

"Who is it? We need to start looking for the family." Nimis's hoarse voice made Randi jump, prompting a soft snicker from behind him. That Stef could so easily keep his calm in moments like this never ceased to amaze him.

Scribere gave the room another once-over before his eyes, much to their joint horror, settled on Randi and Stef. "His name is Vanyel Ashkevron."

Tylendel nodded absently as Savil's voice droned in his ears, his eyes fixed on Donni, who had her eyes fixed on Savil. She knew something, she knew that there was something wrong with Vanyel, and he desperately needed to talk to her about it. He just had to get through the rest of this lesson and he would be free to stop pretending to think about things other than Vanyel. The section of his mind that was Vanyel had been twinging oddly all day, exuding fear and confusion, and Tylendel was on the verge on fidgeting out of his seat in his attempt to keep himself from leaping up and rushing to find Van and sort out whatever this was. Find out whatever was making Vanyel feel this way and eliminate it, make sure it never –

The droning had stopped. Tylendel looked up and was met with the full force of Savil's grey stare, Mardic and Donni looking on quietly. Tylendel gave her a smile, but received a raised eyebrow in response. He wasn't getting out of this so easily.

"So, Lendel, what has you so occupied that you cannot bring yourself to even pretend to listen to what I'm saying?" Savil didn't even need to ask that question out loud – though she did out of courtesy – the eyebrow said it all. Only Savil could communicate whole sentences by eyebrow alone; Tylendel thought the things marvels in themselves, really…

"Why do I even bother asking?" Savil threw her hands in the air and started pacing. "It's Vanyel, isn't it? It's always Vanyel. 'Oh, Savil, I didn't do my reading because Vanyel was having a crisis with his wardrobe and I had to help,'" Tylendel thought Savil's imitation of him to be a smidgeon unjust, but he wasn't given much of a chance to object as she continued. "'Oh, I'm sorry, Savil, but I missed class because Vanyel and I had a fight and I couldn't just leave him like that.' And now, even without his being here or you being with him, he's still managing to distract you! Sometimes, that nephew of mine…" Savil's sentence ended in a string of indecipherable mutterings, not unfamiliar to Tylendel, as Van's rants about Savil usually ended in the same mutterings. He had to wonder whether they had any idea how similar they were.

"Savil," Donni's steady voice cut through whatever plans Savil was concocting against Van under her breath. "I don't think Lendel's concern is misplaced." Savil just stared as she tried to process the quiet certainty in Donni's voice.

"Wait, let me get this straight, you actually think there's something wrong?" Savil looked at the three of them, nodding their heads solemnly, as if they had all gone stark raving mad. "Wait, this is Vanyel we're talking about, right? My nephew, the preening high-born peacock? He isn't capable of having real problems!" Savil spluttered her disbelief, shaking her head and chuckling. Her chuckling died as she took in her students' expressions. She sat down and took a breath. "Alright, what exactly gives you this impression?"

"He woke up far earlier than normal, which is not exactly a regular occurrence for Van," Donni's mouth quirked into a small smile. "I didn't think much of it at the time. He told me he had a headache, one that had woken him and prevented him from returning to sleep. When he said it was making it difficult for him concentrate, I gave him some medicine and it seemed to help. We talked, but there was something odd about it." Donni's brow creased as she struggled to describe it. "It wasn't what he said, but the way he spoke. Like he was just going through the motions, saying what he knew I'd expect to keep me from looking further into his state of mind. Everything he said was hollow, as if there was nothing behind it – as if there was something else that had captured all of his attention, something he desperately didn't want me to discover." As Donni spoke, Mardic nodded, supporting her assessment. Tylendel swallowed convulsively: Donni hadn't gone into that much detail earlier. His worry increased twofold.

"I, uh, I've been feeling Van's worry all day." Tylendel's voice was hoarse, and hearing his read on Van's emotions aloud only caused his anxiety to continue skyrocketing. "He's afraid. I can't seem to figure out why but… but it feels like he doesn't quite know what he's afraid of either. It's as if he's afraid of…" Tylendel searched the feeling, trying to attach words to it. "It's as if he's afraid of himself."

All was quiet as they considered that. Savil looked as if she was about to say something when the door to the Work Room burst open and a crush of bodies poured in. Foremost and least ruffled of them was the Queen, and the fear in her face turned Tylendel's blood to ice even as he jumped up to pay the proper obeisance. She waved that away and seemed to look to someone behind her for guidance. Tylendel glimpsed the reedy form of the Queen's top advisor, Nimis, behind her, but he wasn't the one she was appealing to. Tylendel blinked in surprise as he realized it was Scribere, his old philosophy teacher, resplendent in wrinkled robes and twisted, drink-stained lips, that the Queen gazed at helplessly. Randale, the Queen's nephew, and Stefen, the unofficial Queen's Bard, scrambled out from behind the adults and looked almost apologetically at Tylendel. He stared back at his friends questioningly.

"I apologize for the interruption, Savil, but I was informed by these fine young men," Scribere was incapable of uttering a compliment without it dripping with sarcasm, "that you, being Ashkevron's aunt, and this young man, Tylendel, are the closest people to Ashkevron in Haven at this time. Is this true?" There was an unsettling urgency to the question and Tylendel found himself nodding before Savil had recovered.

"Yeah, that's true. I'm his lifebonded, Savil's his guardian, Mardic and Donni are good friends of his. We all live together, so we're all pretty close… Why?" He couldn't stop himself from asking, though he was almost entirely certain he wouldn't get an answer.

Scribere fixed him with an avid glance. "You're his lifebonded?" Tylendel swallowed and nodded slowly. Scribere's face softened slightly. "Then you know there's something… happening to him." Tylendel nodded again, but before he could speak, a sharp intake of breath from Savil cut him off. He turned to see her staring wildly at Scribere, shaking her head.

"He – but – it's not possible! I checked! Whatever power he has is strictly latent!" Savil's voice was rising to a pitch Tylendel hadn't known her capable of reaching. Scribere just looked at her.

"It isn't latent anymore." Scribere's words had a ringing finality to them that made Tylendel's heart clench. "We need to find him. Now. And I'll need your help when we do."

Tylendel's mind was racing. He searched his mind for anything, any connection, any hypothesis that made sense. Savil and Scribere had suggested that Vanyel had manifested Gifts – and, yes, that was shocking and surprising, but not frightening, not like this. Scribere seemed to be saying that Vanyel was going to be in bad shape, that they needed to find him and they needed people he trusted to help calm him down. But what kind of Gifts… What was Scribere doing here anyway? He had nothing to do with the Heralds, nothing to do with Herald-Mages, nothing to do with anything other than philosophy and drink…

But that wasn't quite true, was it? Tylendel cast his mind back to the days when he had been in Scribere's class, when he had been so impressed by the man's unit on the philosophy of the future and his grasp of its complexities that he had decided to do extra research, looking through all the books in Savil's library about the future. He had found Scribere's name mentioned; he had found it mentioned in more than one book. The man had been a different kind of teacher, years and years ago, before Tylendel was born. He hadn't taught philosophy, he had taught in a Work Room just like Savil's, teaching an elite group of students gifted with a dying Gift… a Gift that was only an echo in the great epics of the bards these days, a Gift that dwarfed all others.

It was the Gift of the Future. Not the ForeSight of the Heralds – no, ForeSight was child's play compared to this power.

The Gift of Prophecy.

But Prophecy was extinct. No one had been born with it for years, no one expected it to ever manifest again, it was a historical curiosity, not a –

"It's back, lad," Scribere was standing right in front of him. "It's back and he has it. I'm going to need your help to get him before somebody else does, or before he gets himself." Tylendel nodded at the gruff voice and followed as they all shuffled from the Work Room.

A thought needled the back of Tylendel's consciousness, worming beneath all of the worry and all of the anxiety. In all the reading he had done, fascinated by this ancient Gift of Prophecy, Tylendel had read two things over and over in every tome he unearthed.

First, Prophecy was extremely powerful and a person gifted with it was capable of attaining godlike status among those without it.

Second, Prophecy was so powerful that it eventually destroyed the one gifted with it, consuming them from the inside out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Apparently self-imposed schedules are not for me – I've come to a compromise with myself and I'll be trying to update every week, without a fixed day. Hope you enjoy this monster of a chapter.**

He had no idea where to go. Leaving Scribere's class, Vanyel stumbled down the hall, wanting to move – wanting to escape – but his aching, protesting mind failed to provide him with a destination, no matter how hard Vanyel prodded it. It just prodded back. Looking about himself dazedly, it was as if Vanyel's knowledge of his surroundings was slipping away, his familiarity with the place he had come to consider his home fading to a dull, uneasy sense of isolation. For a desperate moment, he was struck by the overwhelming impression that if he were to hold out a hand and touch the wall next to him, his fingers would pass right through it. And instead of passing, that moment stretched on, plunging Vanyel into a world of illusions and ghostly intimations where seconds ago there had been brick and solid walls. He shut his eyes and took a halting series of breaths, keeping his hands stiffly at his sides. Though he had absolutely no idea what was happening, he was fairly certain trying to touch something would be a terrible mistake – ominously certain.

So, poking and prodding around his own brain for somewhere – anywhere – to go, trying not to look around himself, Vanyel let his feet direct themselves through the whispering mists of his suddenly incorporeal reality.

Three steps and he was at the end of the long, winding hall, standing suddenly in the reception area; a breath and he was out the doors and in the grass at the front of the school building, which shimmered and flickered like a mirage drawn up out of desert sands by a blistering sun; a shake of his head – which failed to clear it – and another few tentative steps and he was on the well-trodden gravel path leading to the doors of the Dancing Crow… The Dancing Crow – the tavern where he had spent most of the last night, and most of his last coin, gamely drinking and drunkenly gaming; the tavern Tylendel had suggested they try out, instead of wasting their night repeating the last and stumbling out of the Rising Jester in the wee hours of the morning for the third week straight…

Vanyel froze, refraining even from breathing for fear of disturbing his deliberate paralysis. Tylendel… at the name, at the memory of his voice, Vanyel touched on the only concrete in the sea of insubstantial mutability washing around him. Gradually, he began to recognise the outlines of buildings around him and with that influx of memory, he began to regain his footing, both literally and metaphorically. Holding onto the link, to that odd little part of himself that was less _Vanyel_ than it was _Tylendel_ , he used it as an anchor to ground himself in himself, seeing as he did so the ghostly shadows of the world around him begin resolving themselves into substance once again.

Shaky relief flooded him as the night sky, a black ceiling studded with stars and pinned up by the large white circle that was the moon, unfolded over his head, bathing the newly solidified world in white light and black shadow. Time had passed – hours had passed, a whole day – but Vanyel didn't find that at all surprising. Nothing that had happened made any sense, but nothing about it felt confusing or wrong. Still clinging to Tylendel to keep himself centred on the path, firmly in the midst of a world he could actually feel around him, Vanyel held his right hand out in front of him, reassuring himself that he was here, that everything was here, and that he could stop trembling.

Letting out a soft chuckle, Vanyel dropped the hand to his side and his eyes refocused on the distance, locking onto Haven's city gates towering above the buildings lining the side of the street opposite the tavern. Something strong and sharp jabbed upwards into Vanyel's gut and the world swiftly commenced unravelling around him, disassembling as readily as it had reassembled. Vanyel fumbled with his link to Tylendel, trying desperately to hold on, but the link seemed to be unravelling in tandem with the rest of reality, taking on that same wispy, oneiric quality. The last thing Vanyel felt was this half-formed, tenuous link reaching out to him, trying to gain hold of _him_ this time – and then he was standing atop the gates looking down on a battlefield.

They were walking, skimming along the ground, constantly on the verge of running yet not quite ready to give in to the urge. They hadn't found him yet. They had been all over Haven, peeking in every nook and cranny of the city, and he was nowhere to be found. Night had fallen and that fact seemed to inject an element of twitching urgency to the search. The whole situation was poised on the precipice of a spiralling, panicked abyss, and running would only push it over the edge. Stefen could feel the tension thrumming through the air; he could feel the determined moderation of Elspeth and Scribere reining in the growing panic of Tylendel and Savil. The panic was mostly Tylendel's, however – its sheer desperation gave it an edge that eclipsed Savil's more practical, steady fear for the boy. Tylendel felt like he was rushing to save his own life, not the life of a fellow boarder and his teacher's nephew.

But, then again, maybe that was accurate. After all, they had all heard him say he was this boy – Vanyel, the name is Vanyel – this boy's lifebonded. It was Randi who had supplied the information about Vanyel, where he lived, who he was, what he did, who was close to him; Stefen had been nearly useless in that regard. He didn't know much about Vanyel, other than the rumours that were traded amongst the students, descriptions of his beauty, his wit, all the usual nonsense that accompanied a passing fad in the court; however, he was intimately acquainted with Tylendel's feelings on the high-born court sensation. In fact, as Tylendel's friend – one of his closest, he liked to imagine – he had been out with the pair more than a few times, he had gotten drunk with Vanyel, danced with Vanyel, held whole conversations with Vanyel. He had listened to Tylendel's rhapsodic descriptions of his charms; he had listened to his friend's equally emotional fits of melancholia during the pair's quarrels – which were dismally frequent.

If a stranger were to observe his relationship with the pair, he'd likely describe Stefen as a friend of Vanyel's as much as he was a friend of Tylendel's.

But Stefen didn't know anything about Vanyel beyond what the gossipers and Tylendel had told him, despite all the time he had spent in the boy's company. He barely remembered his name. And he couldn't understand why.

It had never bothered him before; but then, he had never really thought about it before. As a Bard trainee, Stefen had been taught to fine-tune his memory, and, as a former street urchin, his training was bolstered by a mind sculpted from its very first moments to collect names and faces and information like discarded coins – it was the best way to profile a potential target when he was in dire straits. Knowledge was power. Stefen was accustomed to having the best memory in any given group, he was accustomed to knowing more about people than they knew themselves after two or three brief encounters. And yet, somehow, he had spent months trailing along after Tylendel and his lifebonded and he was just barely able to recall the boy's name.

Apparently, this was a larger oversight than he could have imagined: Vanyel was Gifted with Prophecy. If it was true… if it was true, Stefen was never going to forget anything about him again. He was never leaving his side, for that matter. Prophecy was a majestic, grandiose word straight from the ancient epic ballads, the greatest of the classic histories – Prophecy was the hinge on which every major battle, adventure, and likewise bard-worthy moment of the olden days swung. Stefen had yearned after those days, the days of fantastic happenings and explosive, world-shattering power, ever since he had first heard the classic songs during the first days of his training at Bardic. He wished he could go back, live and breathe in a time when anything and everything was possible and godlike heroes and villains clashed in volcanic duels. He would excel there, he would be able to compose like mad about contemporary events, rather than grasping after the magnificence of a past age to inspire his music. The problem was, nothing ever happened in the here and now. There was no war, no extraordinary power, no danger or wild, manic triumph: there was only the plodding, everyday rhythm of the world. Nothing to stir the blood.

Prophecy returning – that stirred the blood. And it heralded more to come.

And so, while the group around him strained to push the pace of their walking to the limit and fear swirled palpable in the air among them, Stefen was an isolated tumbleweed of excitement and anticipation rolling along – hidden – in their midst.

A tumbleweed that skidded to an abrupt stop as everyone halted to stare at Tylendel. The Herald-Mage trainee had stumbled to an uncertain stop, swaying slightly as the blood drained alarmingly from his face, causing the shocked, fearful light in his wide blue eyes to burn all the brighter. It took Stefen advancing a step for him to notice the fine tremors that were afflicting Tylendel's body, his breath shuddering audibly as it travelled in and out of his trembling lungs. His eyes, as expressive as they were, seemed disturbingly unfocused.

"Lendel? Hey, what's up?" Stefen was quiet, taking another slow, deliberate step. Tylendel was strung tight, his emotions whirling so fast that Stef could barely pick one apart from another, and he quickly decided caution was the best policy. Caution was better than inadvertently pushing Tylendel over the edge and being splattered against the nearest surface, available or otherwise. Moreover, the others seemed perfectly content with letting Stef take point in this, all of them staying well back and not making any move to approach and help Stef out in any way. He was on his own.

"I… I don't feel him. Or I do – it's just…" Tylendel's eyes remained unfocused as he spoke, twitching back and forth jerkily in their sockets, searching sightlessly for something lost. "The link – it's getting faint. It's like Van's fading away, or something." Blue eyes snapped back to their world and fixed on Stef, seeming to appeal to him for answers. Stef closed the distance between them, fairly sure the danger of being accidently decimated had passed, and put his hands on his friend's shoulders, dredging up his skills as a Bard to comfort him.

"Lendel, I'm sure there's…" Before he had even had the chance to fully launch his attempt at reassurance, Stef's tongue – his second most prized organ – stiffened and went still in his mouth. But Stef didn't get the chance to truly feel his shock at the betrayal – he was too busy feeling the shock at the faint fluttering that had whispered into existence in his chest. He had never felt its like before – it wasn't normal in the least, he knew that much; it felt alien, like someone had removed part of him and replaced it with something else.

Something that felt like _Vanyel_.

Stef let his hands drop from Tylendel's shoulders; he watched as his friend's brow contorted first with confusion, then shock, and finally anger. Before things could escalate any further, Scribere broke the silence and stepped between the two. He gave Stef a hard look. "So, he's feeling his link with Ashkevron fade, and you're feeling one start up. Both at the same approximate intensity," Scribere's piercing eyes unfocused slightly as he examined the boys. "You've split the lifebond in half." And that was it, that was the verdict. Stef and Lendel just stared at the professor.

Tylendel spluttered to life first. "What? That's completely impossible! You can't 'split' a lifebond! You – " Scribere turned and marched off, effectively ending any and all discussion of the subject. The Herald trainee and the Bardic trainee looked at each other, an uncomfortable, awkward silence stretching like a gulf between them.

"Come on, you two!" Scribere's craggy, gruff command was enough to jolt them out of their unwitting standoff. "The pair of you are our best chance of tracking this fool Ashkevron down before he kills himself. Let's go."

And after a bit of reluctant shuffling, and an impatient raised eyebrow from the Queen, they did.

It was bloody, gory, nauseating chaos.

From his sudden perch on top of the city gates, Vanyel had a perfect view of the entire, sprawling scene. It was battle and it was impossible. The fighting was spreading into the city from the abused gates – massive doors splintered and broken, hanging off their hinges – the guardhouse just inside had been set alight and the fire was tearing through the rest of the town at a breakneck pace, smoke pouring blackly into the black sky, blotting out the stars. Men, women, corpses, severed limbs: the carnage littered the ground, obscuring the main road from sight, rendering all equal in a knee-high lake of destruction.

But none of it was possible. The Dancing Crow was gone, burned to the ground, flames still dancing on its ash-strewn foundations – but Vanyel had been there, standing in front of it, mere seconds ago. He had seen no fire; he had not heard the deafening cacophony of battle that was currently ringing through the air; he had seen the city gates whole and undisturbed. A battle of such magnitude could not flare up and progress to such a point in seconds; but then, neither could a person flit from one location to another in the space of breaths and reach the other side of a city in seconds without taking more than a few steps. It was impossible that Vanyel could have been standing a few streets away and not heard or glimpsed signs of the battle raging at the gate; but then, did the same rules of the senses apply in the uncertain world of shadow that he had slipped into? Did that world even exist? How had he managed to get from the tavern to the top of the gates in seconds? There were far too many unexplained factors for Vanyel to reason any of it out: if he was honest, nothing made sense and everything that had happened to him since leaving Scribere's class had been impossible.

Vanyel was tempted to write everything off as a dream, one that had started at his waking up that morning after the dream with that monstrous headache or at his entering Scribere's classroom and launching into a diatribe about things he didn't understand. But, as he watched soldiers in black leather hacking through the forces trying to hold them back with wicked curved blades, as he listened to the screams and felt the desperate rallies of Heralds, he knew that while this battle might not be happening in the strictest sense of the term, it was no dream. It was true, just not in a way he was used to. And, just as he felt the truth of the scene somewhere at the very core of himself, so he felt that anything he did, any attempt at intervention, would be useless. This was unfolding according to its own rules and couldn't be changed, something Vanyel felt and respected without understanding. So he just observed, feeling that that was exactly what he was meant to be doing.

The black-clad insurgents were highly trained and seemed to eliminate four defending soldiers to every one of their own number. They slashed, hacked, danced through the defending army, shaving it down bit by bit with no sign of tiring. The Heralds hung back, arrayed in a semi-circle behind the soldiers, throwing everything they had at their attackers in an attempt to slow their ceaseless assault. The various Heraldic Gifts were playing over the marauders, interlocking in synchronized attacks, breaking apart to work alone, shifting to complement successful attacks and bolster faltering ones – it was a web of power hanging like a net over their enemies, technique and strategy well organized and well executed.

But Vanyel could see that web starting to unwind, he could see the strategy begin to fray at the edges. No matter how many leather-bound warriors were felled by the Heralds, ten more poured through the gaping gates and twenty more of the defenders of Haven perished. The Heralds were beginning to despair, and that despair was giving way to desperation, demonstrated by the bursts of power and uncoordinated, panicked attacks they unleashed and that the enemy soldiers deftly avoided. They had been trained to fight magic; they had been trained to face it and not to fear it; there was someone with magic leading them. And the Heralds were not going to be able to stop them from carving their way to the centre of the city and taking it.

A lone rider was bearing down on the fray, racing down from the keep with feral determination. Vanyel felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he recognised the rider, but it was a disembodied, distant sensation. He just watched, mind remaining quiet, impassive. Horse and rider slipped through the line of Heralds without challenge and waded through the battle to its centre, wielding a sword left and right to meet attacks directed her way as she did so. It was Elspeth, the Queen, and she had made a decision. Vanyel felt himself nod.

She reined her snorting, dancing steed in once she reached the centre of the battle and raised her right arm, sword in hand, into the air. She was calling for attention. There was a lull in the din and eyes, friendly and enemy, turned to the monarch.

"I am Elspeth. I am Queen here and this is my city." Her glare was animated with a wild fire. "If your leader wishes to take it from me, he takes both more and less than he realizes. I will not be kneeling before my own throne, ready and willing to prostrate myself before a usurper. He will not have that pleasure. And you, his faithful army, will not have the spoils of this victory. Your leader serves his own master, a madman, who has used him and others to distract from a larger, more devastating plan, keeping it from our knowledge until it is too late to stop it from being completed. And he has succeeded." Elspeth dismounted heavily, seeming to feel her defeat all the more for voicing it aloud. "Velgarth is finished. He has duped us all – every force capable of uncovering his plot and putting a stop to it has been pitted against one other and thoroughly occupied with internal strife. Thus he has succeeded in what he set out to do: he has begun our Armageddon and he will watch the world burn from his own pyre. So we will fight and the victor will burn alongside the loser." She raised her weapon, slipped easily into a fighting stance and watched the enemy soldiers surrounding her on all sides.

There was a pause. A pause as every individual on that battlefield absorbed her words: some rejected them, disbelieving, but others recognised the truth and they swallowed their shock and mourned the end of all. But everyone raised their arms and fell to the attack once more, believers and disbelievers alike, for there was no alternative. They would all be destroyed. What was there to do but fulfill the plans they had been fed for months, plans for conquest, power and glory on the one side, and plans for defense, necessity and righteousness on the other? They would fight, even as the world crumbled beneath them, because they could no longer envision anything more than this fight, anything beyond it. They were all defeated, but the momentum of the Future would have them fight, so they did even as they recognized its utter futility.

It was what the Future willed: so they fought.

It was what the Future willed: so Elspeth fell, taking her killer with her as her life fled her limbs.

It was what the Future willed: so The Darkness eclipsed Velgarth and all was at an end.

It was what the Future willed: so Vanyel felt himself falling from the gate, falling through the void, and he saw the lines writhe about to embrace him.

It was what a Future willed. A Future… His Future.

Vanyel felt everything fall into place and he understood.

"Which way now?" Scribere wheeled around abruptly as the group paused outside the doors of the Dancing Crow, music and light spilling out from under them with raucous cheer into the night. Tylendel thought about how he and Van had been in there this time last night, helping stir up that cheer. It did not help lighten his mood.

"Look, I have no idea!" Tylendel closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to stay calm. "He should be here. I felt him standing on this very spot," he stamped the ground with his foot, ostensibly for emphasis but really more out of petulance. "And now he's gone." His voice sounded small and Savil's hand settled on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. It took considerable effort on Tylendel's part not to shrug it off and curl up in a corner, away from everyone and everything, until Van came back to him.

He really was quite pathetic. But every time he recognised that, the thin, enfeebled link with his lifebonded wavering inside him reminded him that he had a reason to be pathetic.

"I think I've found him." Stefen was peering over the row of buildings across the street. "He's at the gates – or at least close to them. That is, I think that's where he is." Uncertainty bled into the Bard's voice near the end, and he turned to Tylendel, as if for confirmation.

Tylendel just stared back at him. Stef was his friend, the closest person to him besides his brother and his lifebonded. And Stef was the one who was leeching away half of his bond to Van; the one who was pinpointing Van's location before Tylendel and looking to him for _confirmation_ ; the one who had stepped in and stolen half of Tylendel's heart.

But Stefen hadn't done any of that deliberately. It had come as a surprise to them all, hitherto considered an impossible phenomenon, and Stef looked sheepish and embarrassed every time he pointed the group in a certain direction or hinted at where he felt Van might be. He seemed dazed and unsettled by the sudden link that had opened up inside him, obviously wishing it hadn't happened at all.

And though Tylendel had no idea how else he could have expected Stef to feel at this turn of events, somehow his discomfort and lack of appreciation made it all the worse.

Tylendel realized then just how long and strained the silence had become. He closed his eyes and tentatively followed the weak link out of himself and to its other end, trying to be as careful as possible. He had an sinking fear that if he pushed too hard or got too close, the link would snap altogether. And Stefen would get it all.

"Yes." Tylendel turned sharply to the gates like a bloodhound to the scent of his target. "I feel him." With that, he hurried off without looking back, hardly hearing the others calling, let alone heeding their demands for him to stop and wait. He could feel Van now, he knew exactly where he was, and if there was an odd detachment to what he felt accompanied by a surging alien power, that didn't matter in the least. He was going to find Van, and the rest he would deal with afterwards.

Dispensing with the careful restraint they had been observing for the last three hours, Tylendel broke into a run, loping across the street and whipping down an alley between houses in order to exit the honeycomb of interlocking streets that formed the city proper and reach the open space that separated the city from its gates. He could hear the others pounding along behind him, the wheezing puff that was so distinctively Scribere drowning out the others, and Tylendel gave thanks once again to whatever gods were interested that he had long legs. He could easily keep ahead of them.

He reached the end of the alleyway and burst onto the grass beside the main road, not bothering to check his pace until he reached the guardhouse nestled snugly in the gates' shadow. There he stumbled to a stop, breath coming in short gasps. The others staggered around him after a few moments, unevenly bringing themselves to a halt and following his gaze.

Following it to Vanyel, standing at the closed doors and staring down the main road. He was standing straight, everything about him calm and at ease. His clothes were impeccable as always, not a button out of place; his hair was slightly ruffled as if he had been running, glinting ebony as the night sky, framing his pale face perfectly; his mouth was curved, not quite smiling; his face was awash with the light of the moon and stars, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones and emphasizing the paleness of his complexion. All in all, he looked beautiful, something that never failed to strike Tylendel whenever he laid eyes on Van. But his beauty wasn't what took his breath away and shook him to the very core.

It was the eyes that did that. Fixed unseeing on the horizon, Vanyel's eyes glowed a bright silver, rivalling the light of the full moon. While they _were_ a unique shade of grey, Van's eyes didn't usually shine like a silver coronet set out in the noonday sun. They didn't usually shine with power. But they did now.

"What in the Havens?" Stefen breathed beside him, gaping at the sight. Tylendel didn't shift his gaze from Vanyel and he saw the silver light flicker at Stef's words, fading slowly as Vanyel seemed to sag. Tylendel didn't stop to question any of it, just ran up to his lifebonded and pulled him into his arms, keeping Van upright and assuring himself that he had really found him all at the same time. Vanyel leaned on him and blinked convulsively as he tried to get his bearings. Wordlessly Tylendel stroked his hair and watched, feeling Vanyel's confusion and gradual return to awareness through the half-link, not hazarding speech until he was sure Vanyel was fully with them.

Eventually, with a sharp shake of his head, Vanyel tipped his head back to meet Tylendel's eyes – a glimpse of that familiar burnished silver that never failed to make Tylendel's heart skip a beat – and gave him a tired smile. "Well, well, there you are," Van's voice was hoarse as he smiled, tinged with a weariness that Tylendel had never heard before. "I thought I lost you for a minute." The lifebond, Tylendel caught on belatedly, he's talking about the lifebond. Van had been clinging to it too; he had felt that same fear when it wavered. Tylendel returned Vanyel's smile and bent down to kiss him, showing him that he had felt the desperate fear at the potential loss, and the same rushing relief that nothing had snapped or unravelled irrevocably.

A cough broke them apart. Stef was flushed, shuffling as he both stared intently at them and tried to look in any other direction but theirs. He has half the lifebond, Tylendel realized, so that means he must be feeling… Tylendel's arms tightened around Vanyel. He could feel Vanyel cocking his head curiously and pulling away from him, which Tylendel allowed as reluctantly as possible. He watched as his lifebonded slowly approached the Bard, studying him and smiling slightly. Tylendel forced himself to relax his fisted hands and take a few deep breaths. He didn't need to be jealous of Stefen. Stefen wasn't a threat. He _wasn't_ jealous and he definitely _hadn't_ just put Stefen's name in the same sentence as threat. Not at all.

Stopping in front of Stef, Vanyel lifted an eyebrow and his smile grew, his pale face practically glowing. "Stefen, right?" The Bard nodded and hesitantly returned Vanyel's smile.

"Yeah. I was having trouble remembering your name earlier as well." Tylendel took another breath and forced his blood pressure back down a few notches.

Vanyel laughed – far too musically and genuinely in Tylendel's opinion – and his smile became pensive. "That's rather odd, isn't it? We see each other all the time, but… for some reason I can barely remember your name, or anything about you, for that matter."

Stefen nodded, staring fixedly at Vanyel's face. "It's definitely odd. I'm usually quite good at remembering things about people – well, obviously, I'm a Bard trainee – but I seem to pull the same blank on you as you do on me." Tylendel was definitely done with the fixed staring and the proximity and the fact that Stefen was talking to Vanyel… looking at him… breathing the same air as him… Tylendel looked down and forcibly uncurled his fists for the second time. He had no idea what was happening to him. When had he developed this kind of possessive streak?

Mercifully, Scribere decided to insert himself into the conversation at that point, saving Tylendel from internal combustion. "In my experience, lads, anything 'odd' is more than mere happenstance. There might be more to this than you realize. Especially given the spectacular disregard the lot of you seem to display for established assumptions." Scibere smirked at their exasperated expressions and gestured to Vanyel. "Well, Ashkevron's demonstrated beyond a doubt that he is Gifted with Prophecy," he turned to Stef next, "and you, Bardic trainee, have managed to split a lifebond. Two things considered essentially impossible."

Vanyel's eyes widened and he gave the Bard a hard look. "He's right. You've half the lifebond."

Stef grimaced and shot him an apologetic look. "Yeah, sorry. I'm not really sure how it happened…" Stefen trailed off as Vanyel's expression altered suddenly and he gasped, taking a step away from him. He glanced at Scribere – prompting a wary look from the old professor – and laughed shakily, running a hand through his hair. He returned Stef's grimace and apologetic expression. "I think I might know how it happened." Vanyel dropped his eyes to the ground. "Yeah… I think it might be my fault."

"What?" The question was formed and out of his mouth before Tylendel could process it. He felt numb. Had Vanyel done this? Had he wanted this? How –

Vanyel turned to him, looking like a trapped deer, and Tylendel's heart plummeted though his feet and six feet under ground.

"I have no idea how I managed it. Or, at least, I don't have the proper words to explain it," this with a glance at Scribere, "but, when I was… in that place – the other place where there's just a void and endless lines and paths – I think I dipped into one of them. That is, I was falling toward our path – this line that we're in right now – but I ended up brushing too close to another one and I think that might have caused – this." Vanyel waved a hand at himself, Tylendel and Stefen.

Scribere was nodding, the only one not staring like Vanyel had become a raving lunatic. "That's Prophecy, alright. You know everything by instinct, you can manoeuvre parallels and different streams and mold things to your advantage without flicking an eyelid, but you just don't have the terminology to discuss it with all us mundane people who can't commune with Futures by instinct." Scribere's smile took on a bitter tinge. "But, then again, there are very few that would understand the terminology even if you did know it, Ashkevron, so your way of explaining it's probably as good as any."

Stefen was shaking his head, expression as confused and exasperated as Tylendel felt. "Okay, alright, none of us have any idea what you're talking about because it has something to do with an ancient, extinct Gift that no one's talked about seriously in ages. We get that. But is there anything you can do about?" Stefen looked appealingly from Vanyel to Scribere. "I'd rather not be hated by my best friend for the rest of my life, if you don't mind." Stef smiled weakly in Tylendel's direction and he felt a tightness in his chest relax minutely.

"Well, as I said, I can't explain any of this clearly, and I can't say I fully understand all of what's happening – but I feel like I know what to do." Vanyel closed the distance between himself and the Bard and put his hands on Stef's chest. Tylendel had to bite his lip to keep himself from launching himself at the unsuspecting Bard. "I can feel my way through this better than I can explain it. Do you trust me?" Stef nodded immediately, not a hint of doubt clouding his expression.

Vanyel's eyes sparked to life and Stef inhaled painfully. Nothing visible was happening that could be discerned by the naked eye, but every one of the group could feel the power swirling around the pair, seeping into the air and curling seductively through their minds like tendrils of a heady perfume. Vanyel's face creased in concentration and he muttered something to himself as he shifted his fingers on Stef's chest, watched all the while by a hawk-like Scribere. Stef was lost to the world, eyes closed and expression fluctuating too quickly for Tylendel to discern any specific emotion among the onslaught.

And then he felt it. The rush of completeness solidifying the wavering link, the return of the half of himself – of his bond – that had been siphoned away. He sighed and closed his eyes, revelling in the hole he had felt inside himself closing again. When he opened his eyes, he saw Stef and Vanyel staring into each other's eyes, the former looking shocked and downcast and the latter looking smug and teasing. "Sorry. I know you'll miss me." Vanyel leaned in and gave the Bard a quick peck on the lips, laughing as he pulled back and saw Stef's shock intensified. Tylendel laughed too, all vestige of fearful, aggressive possessiveness gone. He walked over and captured Vanyel under his arm, grinning as he felt said captive nestle closer to his side.

The moment could have been perfect if not for Scribere snorting and regarding them with cynical amusement. "Cute." His dry tone conveyed just how cute he found them. "Now, Ashkevron, you know what you have better than any of us, even me. You've proven that thoroughly. But I'm here to tell you what it's called – Prophecy – and that I will be the one to guide you through it." Scribere drew himself up to his full height and, with his sombre expression, he cut an impressive figure. "You can navigate through much of your power by instinct, and that might be the most deceptive aspect of this blasted Gift. It throws you an immense amount of power and gives you the means to wield it with barely a conscious thought, yet there is an endless amount of theory involved in wielding that power without trampling over the order of things and destroying everything you know and love in the process. Restraint and knowledge are vital." Vanyel seemed to shrink next to Tylendel with every word. "The most important thing to remember, the thing to remember in a pinch when all of the other nonsense I've shoved into your head is out the window, is that every action has consequences. Got that?"

Vanyel straightened at the question and nodded, coming out from his shelter under Tylendel's arm. He met Scribere's stern gaze squarely. "Actions have consequences." The words were spoken softly, but seemed to resonate through the night and deep in Tylendel's head regardless.

Scribere nodded. "So, Ashkevron. I've given you the essential word of wisdom, so that's done. Now, what did you see?" Vanyel didn't respond, any trace of insecurity or fear of Scribere vanished without a trace. "When we found you, standing here at the gates, you were in the grips of a vision. What was it that you saw? Or is it too early to share?"

Vanyel kept his eyes on Scribere for a few seconds longer, seeming to consider his options – consider something even deeper – then he turned to the Queen. He inclined his head and smiled, expression faintly sad. "You are very brave, Your Majesty. This city is yours." All of the blood drained from Elspeth's face at the soft, ominous words: they were words spoken with imperturbable certainty, they were words carrying the incontrovertible weight of Prophecy. Fear prompted by such a statement was inevitable and entirely understandable, but Elspeth kept her eyes on Vanyel, even as her hands shook at her sides.

The Queen inclined her head in turn. "I thank you, Vanyel Ashkevron." She said nothing more, did not inquire after further explanation. Their monarch was an intelligent woman.

Vanyel seemed to belatedly realize her fear and he smiled and shook his head. "I only tell you this because a certain display of your great courage will only ever be seen by me, not lauded by the Bards and commended by all. It will never happen." Something hard and strange had entered Vanyel's eyes, a dim glow emitted from the irises. His voice was slow and hypnotic, an impression of obscene knowledge lurking between his words.

Scribere seemed to be the only one who dared address Vanyel. "What do you mean, Ashkevron? What have you seen? Whatever you've seen must come to pass, you know this." Scribere was looking a little green as Vanyel's smooth, assured gaze returned to him, cool amusement twisting his lips into a smile.

"I have seen the will of the Future, professor. Or a Future, to be more accurate. However, its will is not my will." Scribere looked nauseous and Vanyel's smile only grew wider. "Oh, don't worry, sir. I have the will of another Future on my side. Will you help me?" The question hung in the air, heavy as an anvil, and the world held its breath for Scribere's answer. For his answer would be binding, that knowledge was thick in the air around them.

"You want to oppose one Future, the one we're currently headed for, in favour of another? You're mad, Ashkevron – that runs contrary to every fundamental tenet of the use of Prophecy! You can't just fumble around and reshape what is set to happen, you could destroy countless Futures that way, end countless worlds! We – " Vanyel cut the man off with a glance and a raised eyebrow.

"Remember what I said earlier, master. How can we justify our motives in telling the Futures how to act if we don't understand their motives? I understand the motives, at least within a narrow context. I oppose the will of one Future, this Future, and support the will of another because someone has already reshaped our Future; we must restore the course of what was willed before, what is still willed despite, this intervention because it is the true will serving broader, vital motives." Vanyel was calmer than Tylendel had ever seen him. It was like he was watching a stranger, a person who was hardly a person at all. No person could hold a conversation and so obviously know the outcome in advance.

Scribere eyed Vanyel carefully. "You're certain?"

Vanyel nodded, eyes flat, smile distant and sharp. "It's the reason we're here."

That remark seemed to strike the professor. "So, if nothing had been tampered with, Prophecy wouldn't have returned?" Scribere's tone and expression were inscrutable.

Vanyel nodded again. "Not now. Not here."

"You already know what I'm going to say," Scribere snorted. "You already know I believe you. I'll help." The air shivered as something locked into place, for good or for ill. Scribere ignored it. "Just out of curiosity, what is this reshaped Future we're trying to knock back on course?"

"The end of the world." Vanyel blinked and his lips twitched. "Is that motivation enough for you to make an effort, professor?"

In the deathly silence that followed Vanyel's words, no one noticed the ecstatic grin spreading across the face of the Bardic trainee in their midst.


End file.
